


Least Complicated

by sister_coyote



Series: The Great Cycle [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alchemy, Communication, Family, Fellatio, Intellectual Kink, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-08
Updated: 2008-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions were messy and complicated and his impulse with all things messy and complicated was to skewer them like an insect on a pin and then examine them from all angles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Least Complicated

The problem with the library, Ed thought, was this: the building itself was overseen by a battalion of really anal people (which wasn't a complaint, because their total anal-ness made his life at least somewhat easier). But its contents were written by alchemists. And librarians seemed to have tidy minds, or at least tidy habits, but alchemists, as a rule, did not. And on top of having messy brains, most of them were off their rockers into the bargain.

"Where'd you find the bit about the Lion of Earth?" he demanded of Al, who sat cross-legged with his back to a bookshelf.

"Ahhm." Al surfaced slowly from the book. "It was in deLauney's _On the Transmutation of Fluids_."

"That doesn't make any sense," Ed said. He almost would have accused deLauney of putting it there just to spite him. Almost.

"That's where it was," Al said, with a little jerk of his shoulders that wasn't quite a shrug.

That, of course, was the problem. Alchemists weren't exactly the most . . . organized people. Even the most specialized alchemist had holistic tendencies, because you _had_ to; arrays tied many disparate things together into a coherent whole, described one thing as another; that's what they were _for_. But when a single chapter of a single book ostensibly on the symbolism of serpents in healing alchemy could flit from the tendency of serpents to be aligned with earth to the relationship between earth and fire to the implications of volcano imagery in arrays to modify stone—well. It made it doubly hard to look anything up.

He finally found the book he was looking for (deLauney's _On the Transmutation of Airy Substances_, which hopefully touched on the elusive Lion in the Great Array), and was about ready to settle down to read it—well, maybe not all of it—just the first chapter—maybe —

"It's getting late," Al said. "And I'm hungry."

"Is it really that late?" But the question answered itself; the single high window let in only the dimming reddish light of sunset, and deep shadows lingered between the lamps. Ed said, fingering the edge of the book with longing. "I could take it out and read it later."

"Yeah, maybe," Al said. "You don't have to go with me, though. I made plans to eat with some of the guys from the university. —I mean, you're welcome to come, but you don't have to."

Al's eyes were a careful shade of grey. Ed knew perfectly well that Al was saying, _You can go have dinner with the Brigadier General,_ which Al couldn't actually say because Ed hadn't actually . . . talked . . . to him about the Brigadier General.

It was worse because probably Al had specifically arranged to eat with his fellow students so that Ed would be free, and didn't Ed at least owe it to him to have an actual goddamn adult conversation about this?

But all he said was, "Yeah, think I'll feed myself. Don't wait up."

* * *

Night in the city was too quiet by half. Even apart from his childhood in the country, he'd spent most of his time traveling around in small towns, or out in the wilderness, trudging along railroad tracks or camping out. There, nighttime chattered with crickets and frogs and night birds and scrabbling nocturnal rodents—louder than the daytime, actually. Night in the city was too bright but mostly too _quiet_, pools of silence in between streetlight glare.

It left him way too much alone with his thoughts.

He knew perfectly well that he needed to—well, damn, at least _tell_ Al what was going on. It wasn't like Al didn't know. He was the farthest thing in the world from stupid. (People tended to go on and _on_ about what a fucking prodigy Ed was, but Al was every bit as smart—he could've been a state alchemist too if it wasn't for the armor, and anyway, _he_ hadn't been the one to have the idea to do human transmutation, which meant he was probably a damn sight smarter than Ed had been.) And if Al knew and still got out of Ed's way on a regular basis so that Ed could discreetly see Roy, it probably meant that he didn't seriously disapprove. But —

But this was the kind of thing Ed wasn't good at it. Al was good at people, which was unfair because he was also good at most of the things Ed was good at. _Roy_ was good at people, damn him. Ed wasn't, and knew it. And what was he supposed to say: "So, Al, I realize you've probably noticed, but I'm screwing Mustang. Also I think I like him"? He could tell Al anything except, apparently, that.

The problem was that he had no idea what to do with emotions. Emotions were messy and complicated and his impulse with all things messy and complicated was to skewer them like an insect on a pin and then examine them from all angles. You couldn't really _do_ that with interpersonal relationships, or at least you couldn't if you wanted them to continue to be interpersonal relationships as opposed to just being you by yourself with somebody pissed off at you. Roy never believed this of him, on the principle that he, as Roy has put it rather archly, "wasn't known for repressing his feelings." But that was the problem, wasn't it? He never could understand quite what was going on, and that made him really _angry_. And the worst thing about it was that he really shouldn't have so much trouble with it. He was an adult by now—he'd been an adult for years, really, he'd seen too much and done too much and known too much to have been a child, but by now he was twenty and adult by even the more picky technical definitions. He should be able to have adult conversations about adult relationships without so much trouble.

The wind picked up, tugging at the wet leaves that refused to swirl dramatically because they were wet. Ed shivered and jammed his hands deeper into his pockets.

He'd tell Al. He _would_. Eventually. Later.

Roy's house—way too big for just one person, Roy said it was about appearances but Ed still thought it was dumb—had its porch light on, casting a pool of warm yellow out onto the street. He almost hesitated, and then went on ahead, boots loud on the wood steps, and didn't knock before opening the door.

* * *

"I wasn't expecting you," Roy said mildly, although there was apparently enough soup for two anyway. Maybe he made extra and saved it in the icebox?

"I can go," Ed said, because he felt he had to—and he heard the prickle in his own voice. He didn't really mean it, but it was better than sounding unsure.

"I didn't say I minded." Roy ladled another bowl of soup for Ed and handed it to him. "I just never know when you're going to turn up. It makes things interesting."

"Yeah, well." Ed swirled his spoon in the bottom of the bowl, chasing an elusive noodle. "I didn't know either. But we worked late at the library, and then Al had plans."

"Have you talked to him?" Now the mildness in Roy's voice was—deceptive, like great currents moving beneath a frozen pond. Ed wondered, not for the first time, whether Roy's getting weird about it was because he was offended that Ed hadn't said anything to Al, or maybe because he was relieved. He'd been—weird, ish, about it before, maybe, but it was hard to tell for sure. It was always hard to tell with Roy.

"Nah," he said, and didn't elaborate. There was a long pause, and he thought that, maybe, for the first time, Roy was going to press the issue—and wondered what he'd say. But instead it dropped between them like a stone in a pool, swallowed up in a sudden silence.

"What had so much of your attention at the library?" Roy said, changing the subject smooth as anything, and under other circumstances that would have annoyed the shit out of Ed, but this time he was grateful.

"I was trying to track down this thing about the Lion of Earth," he said. "deLauney referred to it this one time but he wasn't anything like specific enough. I'm pretty sure it has to do with balancing reactions that are otherwise heavy on fire and air, but I keep running into walls."

"Have you looked into Mornay?" Roy asked. "He had a lot to say about the interaction between earth and fire, at least—less about air, admittedly."

"Eh, Mornay's an idiot," Ed said, and took a long swig of water from his glass. "But he did have something about the _leopard_, which might be related—some of the earliest texts use the leopard and the lion interchangeably—dunno why, they're not hardly the same thing—"

"Still, you can use hawks and eagles interchangeably in many arrays . . . "

That conversation carried them out of dinner and into Roy's living room. Alchemy was easy as breathing—alchemy was so easy that he forgot sometimes that not everyone knew it. Roy brought a glass of wine with him; Ed had declined (he didn't like the stuff; beer was more his thing—and really he thought that bourbon straight up was more Roy's, but then again it was probably better he was sticking to wine). The fire snapped in the fireplace, and Ed was just beginning to feel comfortable and drowsy, letting the silence stretch out without worrying about it, when Roy changed the subject again.

"Is there a particular reason you haven't said anything to your brother?" he asked, and his tone was so _even_ that Ed couldn't read it—even and smooth and reflective as a mirror. "He must wonder where you go nights."

"Not. Really," he began, and wondered why he felt so—so stupid about this, this one thing. Alchemy he could get, alchemy he could _always_ get, so readily that it was often surprising to him that other people didn't see the way things fit together, because it was obvious. But this—this he didn't know how to comprehend at all.

"Do you think he would be upset? It isn't a particularly usual situation."

"I don't—know, I—" God, maybe this was the kind of thing you learned how to deal with if you actually had a normal adolescence, with girlfriends (or boyfriends, or whatever), and didn't spend the entire time chasing across the countryside with romance the last thing on your mind. . . . Or maybe it was this bad for everyone.

Yeah. He could hope.

Still, Roy hadn't said anything, though he didn't look—angry, just . . . . Puzzled? Concerned? Ed finally said, "I'm going to do something about it, I just—look, can we not talk about it any more right now?"

"If you'd rather," Roy said.

Long silence. The crackling of the fire. Roy finished his wine and put the glass to one side, and in the firelight he looked really —

That was another big, messy, complicated feeling, but this one, at least, Ed knew something about. "Roy?"

"Yes?"

"You wanna, uh—or is the mood wrecked?"

Roy . . . smiled. "Nothing's wrecked," and for a moment Ed could almost believe that, with the way the firelight washed over Roy's fair skin and reflected in his dark eyes. "And yes, I 'wanna,' as you so elegantly—"

"Jackass," Ed interrupted, but now he was on firmer ground, and so he could laugh, which spoiled his glare somewhat but he didn't care. "You're such a jackass."

"Mmn," Roy said and made to get up. Ed beat him to it, and was the one to hold out his hand.

* * *

Bedroom. A bedroom that was becoming increasingly familiar, even in just a few short weeks. Smooth coverlet, crisp sheets. But they weren't there yet; he was still rocking up onto his toes, digging his fingers into Roy's shirt to pull him down for a kiss. His boot-heels rode up off the floor to make it work.

Roy tasted like wine and chicken soup, but he smelled _good_.

Ed's jacket came off, and his shirt over his head—Roy's clothes were both harder and easier; since his shirt buttoned it meant there were always a lot of buttons to contend with, but on the other hand it didn't have to get over his head, which meant they could keep kissing throughout—Roy's tongue licking over the edges of Ed's teeth, and Ed had to remind himself that biting would probably be a bad idea, but he felt so feral . . . .

And there was a—moment, there always was, once they were both naked and more or less on the bed (it always got confused, neither of them quite willing to stop long enough to sort out logistics). He knew that Roy was waiting for the time he wanted to, to top. And god, he wanted to fuck Roy _so badly_ that the only thing he wanted more was to be sure he wasn't going to screw it up when he did fuck Roy. Partly because he really didn't like hurting people if he could help it, but mostly because Roy didn't need any more reasons to be smug.

So he let that moment, that silent question, pass, and Roy took his lack of initiative for what it was and instead slid his hands down (ticklish over his waist, so he writhed and tried not to laugh and failed) to pin his hips, which he would have protested except that he knew what was coming next as Roy slid down the bed.

Hot breath. And then wet, slow wet deep _strong_, the feeling of Roy's lips around him, his tongue, flickering around the tip and sucking firmly and backing off and Ed had to bite his lip hard to keep from whining from sheer frustration and lust. Maybe it was a good thing Roy always pinned his hips down for this, because as much as he wanted to think he wouldn't thrust, he always began to lose control around this point. Like now, he could hear his own sharp panting breaths and as orgasm got closer he felt a muscle tightening in his leg, so that without meaning to he drummed his heel (fortunately, his flesh one) on Roy's back.

When he came it was with teeth gritted and hips jerking even against Roy's hands, drawn tense and tight and then poured out so that he fell back to the bed on his elbows, breathless, limp, laughing. This at least was simple enough for him.

Roy was licking his lips and looking, well, a little smug, but Ed couldn't muster annoyance at that particular moment. Roy rolled sideways, propped on an elbow, looking at him, and after a moment of struggling for breath Ed let his attention draw downward, to Roy's erection. He squirmed down, paused when he felt a hand in his hair.

"You don't need to—" Roy began, and Ed felt a flash of annoyance for the first time, really, since they'd made it to the bedroom.

"Don't be an idiot," he said. "It's not like you're doing me a goddamn _favor_." Because it was mutual, it had to be mutual, because he was an adult—a weird adult, okay, granted, but he'd earned his maturity the hard way and he wasn't going to give it up—and so this was an adult relationship, so it was meant to be mutual.

Roy looked at him for a moment, eyes dark and unreadable, and then smiled again and let himself be rolled to his back. Ed squirmed lower, bent his head and breathed deep. Scent of sweat and musk—and then licked his way up and then down again.

It hadn't ever been as strange to do this as it was to think about. There was something about the size and taste, the way the muscles twitched in Roy's stomach, up his chest—the way he pressed a careful hand to the nape of Ed's neck but never tried to direct him, which was a good thing. The way he made soft low noises and shifted like he wanted to thrust but wasn't going to. The way he tensed up, shuddered, made a long soft sound . . . .

Afterward, Ed knew he couldn't really blame Roy for smug faces because he was sure he was making one as he crawled back up to settle against Roy's side. It was always so simple like this. It was always so—simple, the way an array was simple, the way he could look at one and see in his mind the way the lines and symbols would interweave to rewrite some small part of the universe.

* * *

It was bright the next morning, the kind of morning that usually made him put on something with sleeves because glare was bad enough on its own but glare off your own shoulder sucked. But this morning he didn't bother, made his slow way down the stairs to the kitchen, poured himself orange juice, stood at the window and stared out into the small back garden.

He heard Roy's footsteps behind him, but Roy didn't interrupt his thoughts for a long while. He was aware of the sound of grinding beans, the sudden rich scent of coffee, and then he felt Roy standing behind him.

Silence for a long moment. Roy reached out and smoothed his hair, because in some particular ways Roy was pretty anal, and Ed knew his hair was always a disaster if he'd slept with it loose, and especially if he'd had sex the night before.

"I think I need to use the Lion at the base of the tree, in the array," Ed said.

"Where the dragon is usually put," Roy said.

"Yes," Ed said. He could see the growing array if he closed his eyes, not quite done but getting there, building slowly to where it could change the world in the way he wanted it to.

Roy began to move away. Ed said, "Also."

A pause. "Also?"

"Also," he said, and then hesitated, because in some very real way saying it out loud would make it real. "Also, I'm going to talk to Al."

Smiles weren't audible, were they? "I think Alphonse will take it very well, to be honest."

"I think he already knows," Ed said. "But that's not really the point."

"Mm," Roy said. "Shower?"

"You're saying I smell?" Ed asked, half because it was expected of him. Roy made an exasperated noise, and Ed—grinned, and stepped away from the window.


End file.
